


A Shot In The Dark

by stellaseas



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: During Canon, Eventual Romance, F/M, Female Friendship, Friendship/Love, Genderbending, Q Backstory, Slow Burn, Thriller, spy games
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:14:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24732160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellaseas/pseuds/stellaseas
Summary: When MI-6 is targeted by a secretive cyber-terrorist directorate, the majority of Q Branch is lost in the explosion. As Bond struggles to find his place in the ashes of the old MI-6, the newly instated Q is eager to make her mark in the shadows of the British Secret Service. Features Fem!Q and follows the events of Skyfall, Spectre & most likely No Time To Die.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	1. Brave New World

**Author's Note:**

> I am finally getting around to reposting this fic (...again). I adore Ben Whishaw, but every time I see a movie these days I can’t help but find a character that could’ve been rewritten as a woman and I feel like Q was the perfect character for an update. I do draw a lot of my fem!Q from Ben’s performance and the brilliant aesthetic the movie made for the character and of course try to stick to the dialogue written whenever I can so it still falls in line with the canon. Not to mention the insane chemistry between Craig and Whishaw, I mean...that’s lightning in a bottle right there. Thank you for reading!

The national gallery was abuzz with patrons. Women pushing strollers kept careful watch over their absconding children, still too young for daily schooling. Men in suits walked quickly about, searching for a bit of culture to absorb during their lunch breaks. A flock of tittering school girls ignored the audio tapes they had been given for their lesson, instead choosing to circle a small display of coal-black anatomically detailed statuettes and snapped pictures between hushed giggles. Several tourists, all hailing from different countries, wandered purposefully through each room, their eyes trained on maps when not absorbing each work of art. None of them paid any notice to their fellow admirers, far too wrapped up in the ancient and often priceless works of art lining the walls.  Except for one. A young woman, slim and bespectacled, sat alone on one of circular leather ottomans placed in the center of the room, her eyes trained on the public rather than the art.

She knew every painting and its history by heart, having been a frequent visitor as a child and was pleased to find that, although it had been almost two decades since she had walked through the impeccably kept museum, not much had changed. She peered over her shoulder to briefly watch the elderly man seated behind her as he casually sketched a copy of the Gainsborough portrait hung on the wall in front of him. When was the last time she had been in a place like this? A place so packed with the masses that they seemed more like a single, gestating organism rather than a collection of individual strangers. For nearly two years she had actively avoided such spaces. She turned her head back, warm brown eyes flitting from face to face after a quick analyzation of each. Every so often, she would glance at the watch wrapped around her wrist. It’s sleek face had yet to be introduced on the market and garnered the occasional stare from several of the suit clad men that passed her by. But she did not take notice, instead she kept turning her attention back to the 34th gallery and the bench that was still empty. 

_ 1:44pm _ . Her brow furrowed.  _ He’s late. _

She wondered vaguely if something had gone wrong and began to list the possibilities in her head as a morbid way to pass the time. Perhaps the man had been spotted and killed, caught, or even, after all the work that had been done and all the waiting she had already endured...perhaps he had still been deemed unfit for service. She shook her head, dismissing the idea. 

_ That can’t be. More likely he’s dead.  _ She decided, quite casually. Such was the nature of Double-Ohs. Short life expectancies coupled with all the dramatics of a Hollywood spectacle. After all, this was certainly not the most clandestine of meeting places. Then again, she had not been privy to the choice, having not even been told of the meeting until all the details had been determined and approved. 

_ And he could just be late.  _

Although it was the most likely of answers, it was in no way reassuring. She had been warned by a number of her new colleagues that Double-Ohs could be callous, unpredictable and entirely unapologetic. None more so than 007. From what she had gleaned during nearly a fortnights worth of orientations, it was clear that being in possession of a license to kill meant one was also licensed to bend the rules and skirt protocol if the circumstances required it. That revelation was one of the many antiquated MI6 doctrines she had no intention of abiding by now that she had taken control of Q Branch.  A lively smile threatened to overtake her features at the thought. She itched to control it, the spark instead broiling in her dark eyes as she allowed the words to linger in her head for a minute longer, reveling in all that it meant. 

_ I’ve taken control of Q Branch.  _ She swallowed, as if only now just realizing the gravity of it all. Had she been told even five years ago the path her life would lead, she would’ve laughed out of sheer disbelief. And yet here she sat. In the short space of sixteen months, she had gone from being a wanted criminal to reluctant consultant, only to be fired on the grounds of improper behavior and or, as her superior had put it “blatant and conniving disrespect.” To think that she was now the newly appointed head of the very department that had gladly booted her from their ranks only three months prior…

_ Is it ironic?  _ She mused, too pleased to bother pinpointing the proper word.  _ No matter.  _

The haste in which her newfound path had unfolded still confounded her. She had half a mind to pinch herself. It could all very well be a dream. The setting certainly lent itself to such a theory. To think she was now here, seated amongst the works of some of the greatest creative minds to grace the earth, waiting to begin what she hoped would be a long and storied career seemed even now like a fabrication of her mind. It did bear similarities to the fantasies she had conjured up while trapped, alone and hunted in the darker urban corners of many a foreign country. 

_ I never imagined to be kept waiting,  _ she thought after glancing once more at her watch. _It is nice to get out, though._

For the past week she had been all but confined to the new, temporary underground MI-6 facilities, meeting potential new hires and rushing several projects into an expeditious birth. She had gone with little sleep and less food, but it was no burden to her. She was used to working this way. 

_ And how could I complain? After all that has happened... _

* * *

Not even a month earlier, she had been another person entirely. She was back in England after twelve years away, forced from home and country due to a mixture of her own youthful mistakes and by situations more or less beyond the realm of her control. She had no aliases to hide behind, no team of loyal staffers, no guard and no permanent home. She was just Maggie Dawson, holed up in a hotel not far from Paddington station, unsure of what to do or where to go next. 

It was on a cold, gray morning, winter still clinging stubbornly to the city, that her answer came banging loudly on her door. After casting a bleary eye at the clock by her bedside, she registered that it was 9:28 am. When the knocking failed to subside, she clamored from the warm layers of pressed sheets and comforters and wobbled to the door, her mind a mess of colorless dreams and the still ebbing effect of sleep aids. 

She rustled through her bag set on a small coffee table and pulled out dingy cable-knit sweater. Like most of her clothes, it was about two sizes too large for her boyish, shapeless figure. If the knocking hadn’t continued to increase in volume, she would have considered searching for something more suitable than the tartan pajama pants she wore, maybe even run a comb through her hair, but the banging was incessant and she didn't want to rile the knocker any further. With a muffled grumble she adjusted her glasses and opened the door. 

Two men dressed in black trench coats stood in the hallway. The first was perhaps one of the tallest men she had ever laid eyes on. His mouth was set in a grim line and he kept his gaze up and forward, hands clenched together behind his back. The second was shorter, stouter...and familiar. 

“Mr. Tanner,” She said, straightening and instinctively running a hand through her mess of bed crumpled curls. “This is a surprise.”

The man nodded in agreement, offering no greeting as per usual.

“You’ve been called in.” He said bluntly and made no attempt to offer any further explanation.

She blinked, trying to make sense of his words. 

“I...believe I was sacked.” She responded, blankly. 

“We’ll give you a moment to change,” He responded, pointedly. She followed his gaze down. 

When she looked up again, the two men were already making their way down the hall towards the elevator where two others waited. 

With a creased brow, she slid back into the room and returned to her bag. She stood over it for a second, frowning as her brain tried to work through the haze of interrupted sleep. The heavy hotel door fell shut behind her with a loud bang, rousing her further. 

_ Something must’ve changed.  _ She concluded.  _ But what? _

She rounded the table and grabbed the television remote from the arm of the couch. The sound remained muted, but it wasn’t needed. Once it flicked on, she was met with a fury of flames and swells of thick, black smoke. At the bottom of the screen the headline read:  **EXPLOSION ROCKS MI6.**

Quite suddenly, she was wide awake. She felt as though she had been pricked with a syringe and filled to the brim with adrenaline. She pressed the power button and watched the screen flick to black. In it’s large frame, she could see her reflection bathed in a dark void. Her hair was truly a mess, it stood on all ends, curling every which way. By her calculation she had been asleep for close to eleven hours. A record she hadn’t reached since childhood. 

Her heart bubbled up into her throat.  _ Do they...could they think me responsible? _

It was very possible. She had spoken of the possibility of such an attack nearly everyday of her employment. Each time she had been met only with a dismissive wave of the hand by one of many superiors. But MI6 was always listening. And now she was being called in. An hour after the attack. She could only hope that they were calling in her for questioning. The likelihood of politely asking a suspected terrorist to come in, as Tanner had, seemed low. A shiver raced violently through her at the thought of the alternatives. Steeling herself, she swallowed down her fears and went about dressing into more appropriate clothes. 

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much she could choose from that was clean. She managed to pull together an outfit of slim, brown corduroys, a somewhat wrinkled button up and a navy cardigan. She then slipped on her only pair of oxfords and her weathered rain jacket. Finally, she pulled her hair up and back, crafting it into as neat a bun as she could manage and brushed down her bangs with a damp comb before slipping out the door and into the hallway. It wasn’t what she would call an improvement, but the situation - as dire as it now seemed - certainly didn’t call for anything more. 

The tall man stood alone, waiting for her by the doors that led to the lobby. Adapting what she hoped was a look of easy indifference, she followed him to through to the front exit, where a black SUV was waiting. The ride was silent and shorter than she expected. After three turns the car was ushered through an iron gate and driven down into what looked like a long-abandoned tube tunnel. Before she could note where exactly they were, she was whisked into an underground facility and into the office of the head of MI6 herself, the preeminent M. 

She sat behind a large metal desk upon which lay two file folders, an unopened laptop, telephone and a ceramic dog draped in the sort of cheesy patriotism that was usually relegated to tourist traps and market shops.  The room itself was carved into the stone, the ceiling comprised of sloping arches, bearing meandering cracks and sputters grown by time and strain. The desk sat before what must have been a newly installed glass window that looked down upon a range of desks where people, some with faces Maggie recognized, bustled hurriedly about. Tanner followed behind her, carrying a box with paperwork that he added to one of the many stacks littered along the walls of the appropriately grand but still slapdash office. With a nod to M, he stepped back and took his place at a much smaller desk by the door. 

“Sit, Ms. Dawson.” M said, without taking her eyes away from the sleek, leather bound folder that lay open in front of her. 

Blinking in the cool fluorescence light hanging above, Maggie could see two chairs placed before the desk. The one furthest from her was occupied by a man. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him walk the halls of MI-6 during her brief tenure, though he had the distinct look of a government man. He seemed to be in his early fifties and his beleaguered eyes were a near perfect match to the slate gray of his suit. He watched her carefully with the steadiness of a hawk, his mouth set into a frown laced with obvious chagrin. 

Maggie chose to ignore it. With a curt nod she lowered herself into the open seat, the fabric of her jacket crunching softly as she settled, trying to keep her posture as relaxed as possible. 

M pulled one of the pages free from the folder, holding tightly to one corner as she reviewed it. Several seconds of heady silence followed. Maggie began to wonder whether she was meant to speak. 

“Absolutely not,” The man said turning towards M and leaning forward in his chair. “She’s a child.”

Maggie’s brow rose up past her bangs and she looked between M and the man, clearly she had entered the conversation too late. 

“She may look like one, but I assure you she’s well past the voting age,” M said with thinly veiled bite. “I don’t see what you have to moan about, Mallory. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Someone less...what was it you said yesterday, _antiquated_?”

As a bitter silence began to permeate the room, Maggie began to put the pieces together. 

“I take it I was right,” She said softly but assuredly, adjusting her glasses. 

Finally, M looked up to meet her eye. The paper slid from her grasp, silently falling to join its peers. 

“Yes,” M said bluntly, while expertly ignoring the man’s annoyed chuff. Maggie fought to hide a smile. She was rarely wrong, but even though she had been repeatedly underestimated, thanks most often to outdated bias and sheer (usually male) denial, she couldn’t deny that being proven right was a swell feeling. It never seemed to get old. Having just reached her 30th year, Maggie was beginning to doubt it ever would. 

“And…” Maggie baited. Met only with silence, she bit down on her lip and led with her first theory. “...You suspect me.”

Better to know now than to be led around like a fish on a hook, slowly and agonizingly tugged towards death via a sentence of the highest treason.

“Certainly not.” M said, as if the very notion was ridiculous to consider. 

Maggie inhaled for what felt like the first time since he had left the hotel. The pain in her lungs, which hung heavy in her chest, drifted away. 

“Then why am I here?” She asked, allowing just a sliver of her frustration to break through the carefully crafted walls that kept her secrets confined within her. It was well known, after all, that the Lady M preferred honesty to bullshit. No matter the circumstance. 

“To witness a miracle.” M said, without missing a beat. “I’m about to do something I’ve never done before.”

Only now did she offer a glance to the man sitting across from her. He opened his mouth to speak, but Maggie jolted by the insinuation spoke first. 

“You’re...offering me my job back?” She said, nerves sparking in her chest like embers crackling in a fire. She certainly had never wanted to be fired. After being apprehended overseas, the idea of setting herself on the right path seemed a long shot. Only for her doubts to be dashed by the surprising offer to join the newly minted team of developers under Q branch. How better to right a decade of wrongs by assisting the very people she had once hoped to target? And yet, she found what few starry eyed ideals she had were quickly crushed by the rampant threads of archaic thinking and rules that dominated the Q branch. She had not meant at the out start to be so impertinent with her superiors, but their constant refusal to consider the turning of the world led to many an argument, which of course made her seem, as Q himself had put it once or twice, like a “brassy, autocratic shrew.” 

“No.” M said. 

Maggie frowned, allowing the confusion to show on her face. She was certain that was the implication.

“We can now confirm…” M said, her voice going low. She stopped, taking a moment to breathe. “...that most of Q Branch was destroyed in the bombing. Dozens of lives have been lost, Ms. Dawson, including all of your former superiors.” 

Maggie lowered her head, unable to meet the flash of grief that flashed in the older woman’s eyes. She knotted her fingers together in her lap, wringing them through one another while failing to come up with a proper response. Thankfully, M did not wait for her. 

“Which means,” She continued, touched her hand to the page on the table. “We are now without a Quartermaster.” 

Maggie’s head shot up. “I-I don’t understand.”

“I’m offering you a promotion, Dawson.” M said, curtly. “Of the highest capacity.”

Maggie’s mouth fell open as the cogs in her brain tried and failed to process what she had been told. M gestured to the man seated beside her. 

“Mallory, here...doesn’t believe you are the proper candidate for this position,” M said, shooting him a steely look. “In fact, he has spent the last hour trying to convince me against bringing you on again.”

Maggie looked towards him, hardly able to take in what M was explaining. 

“I was looking over the transcript of our last discussion.” She said, glancing back down at the pages in the folder.

“My exit interview.” Maggie injected. “When you...let me go.”

M looked up, seemingly daring her to continue. It was a challenge that Maggie could not turn down. 

“I believe you called me a cocky little cyber clerk.” Maggie said, mockingly amiable.

“I remember it,” M quipped stonily. “And I stand by it.”

An impish grin flashed across Maggie’s face. “Fair enough.”

“As I was saying,” M continued, “after reviewing the responses you gave on the hazards plaguing the branch...I believe you are the only person right for the job.”

Mallory sighed loudly. Maggie kept her eyes trained on M. 

“And since I am  _ still _ the head of this organization,” M said, her voice hitching up in volume. “The only question left unanswered is...will you accept?”

Maggie didn’t need to think it over. She would be a fool to even hesitate. 

“Yes, mum.” She said, with a clear and concise nod. 

“Good girl,” M said, snapping the folder shut. “Tanner will take you through the rehiring process. Temporary housing has been arranged. I suspect you will have everything sorted by the end of the week.”

“O-of course” Maggie nodded. She rose from her seat, her head spinning like a top. 

Thankfully, Tanner was there, his hand holding the glass door open. Maggie scuttled over, feeling suddenly as light as air. 

“And Dawson?” M called. 

Maggie turned. “Yes?”

“Welcome back.”

* * *

In the weeks that followed, Maggie was lost to a whirlwind of meetings, regulation hearings and interviews. She of course had to be vetted by several committees and while most expressed doubt similar to that of Mallory’s, M’s approval was paramount and therefore very little time was spent dwelling on objections. While the whole of MI-6 was still trying to pull together the remains of their operation, it was Q branch that had been hit hardest. The team, once boasting a brigade of veteran employees had been whittled down to eight. Whoever had been responsible for the attack had made sure to rightly fry whatever systems could be accessed. It was a liability Maggie had tried to warn the higher ups about on multiple occasions. A move that had etched a target into her back and had ultimately led to her severance. Not that any of it mattered now. 

Having been stripped of all electronic records, the remaining members of her team had been forced to scrounge any information they could find from the charred but still intact paper files kept hidden under lock and key. She was almost thankful for this, it meant she could start from scratch and build up the department how she saw fit. 

Still the position did not come without setbacks. She would have to adapt to working with others again. Her communication skills and dress would have to be adjusted. After meeting with a pair of nearly indiscernible financial toffs, both of them dressed to the nines in pinstriped suits and projecting more gloominess than the London skyline, she was given temporary approval to work with a padded budget but warned not to overreach so early into her career. 

On her eighth day of work, she had managed to procure an assistant. Malcolm Denison was an Oxford boy, only four years her junior, but he was smart and quick on his feet. He had been hired only two months after Maggie’s initial employment and Maggie had taken a rare liking to him. By the will of fate, he had called out sick on the day of the blast. Once his orientation was complete, she was allowed a single free day to return to her hotel, pack up her belongings and sleep off her malaise. In her absence, Malcolm assisted in the training of the several new hires she had insisted on at the start. They included three hackers adept and cracking through security so that MI-6 as a whole could immediately begin the long task of beefing up what little existed before. Two developers were also hired. They were young but well trained and she was certain she could trust to work with the programs she herself had created some many years past. Finally, there was a trio of technical engineers, who could begin assembling the necessary equipment to better protect the secrets of the United Kingdom. It was a start, but her team was far from complete, clocking in at 18 employees, it was a definite skeleton crew compared to what Q Branch had been before the attack. She did want to streamline the branch, but everyone would be pulling double duty until the culprit of the attack had been found and dealt with. 

She returned the following morning, rested and ready to begin this new chapter of her life. The new “digs” (as Tanner called them) had been vastly enhanced in the time since she had first been there. A team of workers had been dispatched to clean, paint and properly light the cavernous tunnels. Once they had finished, the surviving members of MI6 had burrowed into the underground much like hibernating animals.  The new Q branch had been moved into one of the larger paddocks. Her mainframe was stored underneath newly constructed glass floors, several inches thick, that could only be accessed through doors that were built into the floor Tanner was there to meet her on her first “official” day and walk her through the grand tour with Malcolm following dutifully along. He had already offered to carry the two messenger bags that were hung over her shoulders, but she declined. The first contained her personal laptop, smeared with a collection of stickers that she had acquired during her time abroad. The second held four changes of clothes and a small number of other personal essentials. All were things she preferred to keep hidden, where no one could tamper with them or even  _ see _ them until she deemed it appropriate. No matter how heavy they were. 

“...in time you will meet all the Double-Oh’s,” Tanner said, walking several steps ahead of her at an alarming pace. “Normally there would be a formal introduction with all nine present but given the circumstances, time is of the essence and several of them are involved in missions already in progress. 

“Yes, of course,” Maggie agreed, doing her best to keep pace. “Um, Tanner-”

“That said, all pending projects have been put on standby. M will need you to review each of them and decide which ones should be reinstated immediately, if any. Did you read the dossier I gave you-”

“Yes,” Maggie answered. “Could I-”

“Once the conference room has been set, the results will be discussed.”

“Alright-”

“With M’s approval of course. Once this is behind us, we can focus on shoring up the staff so that you can focus on-”

“Tanner.” 

“Yes?” He came to a stop so suddenly, she nearly toppled into him. Malcolm screeched to a stop behind her and paused to adjust one of the straps that had fallen down her shoulder. Maggie jumped at the contact but composed herself enough to smile. 

“Oh, that was-thank you Malcolm. Um, yes. What was I going to...Ah, before we get started today.” Maggie said, “Could you...point me towards the ladies?”

“Of course.” Tanner said with a sheepish shrug of his shoulders. 

He took an abrupt right, leading them down a narrower corridor with minimal lighting. 

“Are you able to find your way back?” He asked after stopping at the fourth door down. 

“Yes, your tour was more than sufficient.” Maggie said, placing her hand on the chilled iron door. 

“Can I get you anything, mum?” Malcolm asked, hovering like a sparrow just behind Tanner. “Coffee or-”

“Tea would be most appreciated,” Maggie said. “Earl Grey, if you have it. No milk, no sugar, strong."

“Very good.”

_ No doubt I’ll get used to that,  _ She thought as she watched them go. 

With a deep breath she leaned into the door with all her weight. Unlike the rest of the compound, the restrooms had been left untouched by the renovators, aside from a few minor upgrades. It was a quiet, concave room. The air was cold and thin, made more so by the aging stone that made up the walls and low ceiling. Maggie crossed through the locker room, relieved to see they were empty. She set her bags down on a bench that sat in the middle of the washroom, her eyes trailing upwards in search of cameras or any other recording devices. She could sense deep in her bones the history of this place as if it had been sealed in for all these years and was only now allowed a chance to dissipate. 

_ Out with the old,  _ She thought, before crouching down to pull a small case from one of her bags.  _ In with the new.  _

As she straightened she caught sight of her own reflection in one of the dusty mirrors that had been hammered above each of the five sinks lining the wall. The silence deepened. Looking down she fiddled with the latch that kept the case shut. It was a souvenir of sorts, one of the only things she had kept during her travels. She had only been back in London for a year, but after all that had transpired...her time away felt like another age entirely. 

Pushing those thoughts aside, she opened the case. A small silver pen was magnetized just under the opening latch inside. She took it up between her thumb and index finger and pressed it down into the lower left corner, triggering the hidden bottom to pop open. After pulling it up, she fished out the contents: a paper copy of her original passport and her original birth certificate. She lifted the certificate up to the light, eyes squinting to read the faded scrawl put down by the doctor. 

Margaret Louise Dawson. Born January 23rd, 1982.

Her eyes drifted down the document, pausing only momentarily on the other names listed. Amanda Dawson & Sebastian Pesaro. Her parents. 

_ What would they think? If they knew… _ She shook her head.

_ No use dwelling on the past.  _ Not now that her future was secured. She turned one of the faucets until a steady stream of water began to flow. Maggie. The name seemed foreign to her now. A stranger’s name. She had never liked it, even as a child, especially knowing her grandfather had chosen it. She had changed it at the first opportunity. There were other names, some she chose, others that were given to her. They had all served her well, but now she had no further use for any of them. 

She cranked the faucet once more until water slapped loudly against the basin of the sink. With her eyes trained on her parents names she took the certificate in both hands and ripped it straight down the middle. Then, stacking the pieces together repeated the action once, twice and finally three times. She opened her hands slowly, letting the pieces drift down into the sink and watched, nearly numb, as they muddied, ink bleeding down into the drain, until the last shred had disappeared.

“Goodbye Maggie Dawson,” She said aloud. 

She turned her gaze back to the mirror, allowing herself one last smile as she adjusted her glasses. Already she felt and looked like a new person. 

“Hello Q.”

* * *

She looked to her watch again. 

_ 1:54 pm. _

She glanced up towards Gallery 34 once more. 

_ Ah.  _ A flutter of nerves ignited in her stomach.  _ There he is.  _

With her attentions now squarely focused on the man sitting in Gallery 34, the details of her surroundings fell away. Her beating heart pounded in her ears. A sign of nerves. Strange. This was the first time since her hasty induction that she felt so apprehensive. Was it perhaps the dream-like location that was throwing her off? Or was it simply due to the fact that this would be her first time meeting one of the infamously difficult Double-Ohs?

She stopped, hidden under the shadow of the arched threshold that connected the two room and took a moment to analyze her contact. Even though he was sharply dressed in a tailored navy jacket and slate suit, he looked scraggly and weather-beaten. His skin was sallow, eyes cursed with a heaviness that suggested he was in desperate need of a hot shower, a good shave and about a week’s worth of sleep. He sat before what some considered to be the most important piece of art in the whole of the National Gallery. 

_ The Fighting Temeraire,  _ she thought, recognizing it instantly. _ How...appropriate.  _

She wondered if he had chosen it purposefully. It was hard to imagine a man in his line of work would possess even a passing knowledge of art history. Perhaps he was simply drawn to its amber coloring, vastly contrasting as it was to the other works of art that had been hung on the walls. 

With a steadying breath, Q stepped out of the shadows and made her approach. With each step, the tension fell away as old instincts were awakened. This task was simple, compared to what she had dealt with in the past. This man was a killer yes, but she now outranked him.  Silently, she lowered herself down onto the padded bench next to him, her eyes trained on the painting. She could sense him stiffen and turn to look her up and down. No doubt she was not at all the person he was expecting to meet. 

“Always makes me feel a little melancholy,” she said, her voice no louder than the whispering footsteps that passed them by. “A grand old warship, being ignominiously hauled away for scrap.”

She breathed deeply, pushing the last of her nervous energy out of her body. 

“The inevitability of time, don’t you think?”

She turned to look at him then, an easy smile gracing her face. He kept his eyes trained ahead. Eyes that were, by all accounts, the most stark shade of blue she had ever seen. They stood out against his pupils as vividly as figures carved in dutch china. 

When he didn’t respond, she dared to proffer a question. “What do you see?”

“A bloody, big ship.” He answered, his voice as crude as smoke. 

Q fought to hide a grin. Perhaps these Double-Oh’s were not as enigmatic as she had been led to believe. 

“Excuse me,” He muttered, preparing to take his leave. 

“007,” She called, her volume hitching up a hair. 

He froze a moment before emitting a tired sigh and falling back into his seat. 

“I’m your new Quartermaster.” 

Nonplussed, James shot a swift look in the direction of the young woman seated on his right. She was taller than most yet slight like a birch tree, all limbs and no shape. She wore a crumpled windbreaker that seemed to be at least two sizes too large for her over a patterned navy and emerald tweed jacket tailored to fit her spindly form. A crisp collared blouse was tucked underneath, a string of thin, velvet navy ribbon was tied off in a long bow where a man would have sported a tie. Her hair was dark and thick, several sections of it pinned haphazardly at the back of her head, held in place by a bronze circular clasp. Thick bangs hung down over her brow line. A pair of perfectly rounded, tortoiseshell glasses were perched on the bridge of her nose. She was no doubt older that she looked, but her face lacked even a hint of makeup or fuss.

“You must be joking,” He said, dismissively.

“Why, because I’m not wearing a lab coat?” She replied, blinking coolly, completely unbothered by his dismissal. 

“Because you still have spots.” His words poised to wound. 

Q couldn't help but grin, her eyes still trained on the painting. Over the past week she had been privy to all sorts of explanations contesting her qualifications, but never had her looks been drawn so ostentatiously into the fray. 

_ I’ll give him points for creativity.  _ She reasoned. 

“My complexion is hardly relevant.” She countered, careful to keep her tone congenial. 

He bit back, “your competence is.” 

“Age is no guarantee of efficiency.” If her time with Q branch before her firing had yielded anything of use to her it was that. When once she had been intimidated by her older superiors, she knew now that she was just as qualified as they were. 

“And youth is no guarantee of innovation.”

_ It is with me.  _ Q thought.

“I’ll hazard I can do more damage on my laptop sitting in my pajamas before my first cup of earl gray than you could do in a year in the field.” The words were out of her mouth with the swiftness of a nocked arrow. 

“Oh, so why do you need me?” He questioned, almost petulantly. 

She paused, lips struggling to hold back another smile as she feigned consideration. 

“Every now and then a trigger needs to be pulled.” She allowed, unable to resist goading him further. 

“Or not pulled,” he challenged. “It’s hard to know which in your pajamas.”

She could feel his eyes on her and turned her head towards him. His eyes were locked onto hers. That steely, steadfast blue so reminiscent of M. Before she could respond, the bitterness faded from them and he lifted his hand out to her. 

“Q.”

She blinked, glancing down at it as though she had never seen one before. 

“007,” She said finally, her smile now sincere. 

_ A show of acceptance, _ she noted.  _ Reluctant maybe...but I’ll take what I can for now.  _

As she turned to retrieve something from the pocket of her coat, Bond couldn’t help but smile. This reeked of M’s doing: a new hire, so unexpected it boarded on the preposterous. That new hire had once been him. Now it was this spritely little know-it-all. No wonder that Mallory fellow had seemed so on edge. 

Q handed him an ivory envelope with his number stamped at the center. 

“Ticket to Shanghai,” she explained. “Documentation and passport.”

“Thank you,” He said brusquely, pocketing it. 

“And this,” She lifted the case and passed that off as well. “Walther PPK-S nine millimeter short. There’s a micro-dermal sensor in the grip. It’s been coded to your palm print so only you can fire it.”

She watched him inspect it out of the corner of her eye, waiting for questions that never came. 

“Less of a random killing machine,” She ventured. “More of a personal statement.”

“And this?” Bond asked, referring to a small, square indent in the bottom right hand corner of the case. 

Q handed him a small piece of machinery. 

“Standard issue radio transmitter. Activate it and it broadcasts your location...distress signal.” She clarified. “And that’s it.”

“A gun...and a radio,” He parroted, “not exactly Christmas, is it?”

Q’s smile turned wry and she suppressed the urge to launch into defense. Instead, she was reminded of her former superior and his inexplicable flair for complicated dramatics. No more would Q Branch churn out waves of kitschy gadgets. 

“Were you expecting an exploding pen?” It was perhaps an untimely, arguably tactless jab, but one she simply couldn’t resist. “We don’t really go in for that anymore.”

_ Now that I’m in control.  _

She stood then, pressing down the fold of her jacket with one hand. There was work to be done. Lots of it. 

“Good luck out there in the field,” She said with careful sincerity. “And, please return the equipment in one piece.”

As she walked away she could hear him mutter to himself, “Brave new world.” 

Q smiled as she passed under the shadowy threshold and into the next gallery. 

_ Indeed.  _ She thought. 

* * *


	2. The Thick of It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do sort of jump around with Skyfall in this chapter. I know I keep posting and unposting this fic but it’s so dear to me and I want it to be so good. I’m fickle as hell! 
> 
> I guess I should say that this chapter too has some dialogue from the movie as I go through scenes, of course it’s not mine and I claim no ownership to it. It's also worth noting, I know very little about technology let alone hacking. I’ve done what I can from some very quick research (and...watching Mr. Robot? Oof.) but that’s about all the knowledge I have. To be fair...it’s probably no better than what’s in the movies? That’s not really an excuse but I’m going with it. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading and for the kudos! I’d love to hear your thoughts, too.

The hour was far from growing late. Soon the clock would reset and, in the passing of a second, late would become early. A new day would shutter in faster than the blinking of an eye. A white late winter moon, paler than snow, hung above London hidden by a heavy bank of brewing storm clouds. Rain began to fall from the sky. Icy drops sank through the stone and concrete down into the “new-old” halls of MI6 igniting the scent of dust.  _ Like petrichor,  _ Q thought, in between reading lines of code. As the smell grew stronger, she felt her concentration and vitality begin to wane. Her mind, lost as it was to a sea of dead end trails, would soon become useless.  _ I’m older now. _ She blinked, water pooling at the corner of her eyes to cool the sting of dryness.  _ The number of all nighters I’m able to endure is beginning to dwindle. Strange how quickly age begins to affect the mind. _ She nudged her glasses down the brim of her nose and rubbed at her tired eyes. They were beginning to ache from the strain and Q realized with delayed relief that she had finally procured a job that was legally recognized by a governing entity. Meaning, she could finally see a reputable optometrist. She logged another mental note to have her assistant set her an appointment as early as possible. 

_ Still nothing.  _ She sighed, pushing her glasses back up.  _ How is that possible? _

She sat hunched before her personal laptop, set upon a standing table. While she usually preferred to stand, she had been working since the morning and her feet were in need of a rest, so she had Malcolm procure for her a tall stool after teatime and had been practically glued to it ever since. She straightened, the meager muscles in her shoulders none too happy; she groaned thickly as she stretched her arms out, taking in the scent of rain and night. Her joints buckled loudly as her fingers extended towards the white brick above. 

Behind her a large screen of the highest caliber had been installed, bearing a running counter of the security system she had built up with the help of her new staffers. And laid out before her table were a dozen desks set in two neat columns. They were similar to hers, constructed of the same chilly metal but much shorter. Each one contained a laptop, charging station and separate smaller monitor that reflected the images of that of the large one behind her. Chairs of different makes and models sat before each one. 

_ Strange... _ She thought, scanning the room.  _ Everyone’s gone.  _

The room was much darker than she remembered. Only the long lights above her head were still lit. The cool, white LED flickered quietly. Only the gentle hum of the machines could be heard. Q’s eyes found her watch. 

_ Ah, well...2:36am. That would explain it.  _

Time was a strange thing. She could have sworn it was midnight just two minutes ago. The days leading up to her hiring had moved by at a near glacial pace. Now that she was settled and there was real work to be done, the hours were sailing by at breakneck speeds. Days were molding into one another. Her search for a home, stymied as it was, seemed impossible now that they had been able to pull apart the virus. She was a little nettled that her staff hadn’t stayed along with her. But her irritation was fleeting. She certainly preferred to work alone. With no one to report to, no one demanding explanations or floating ridiculous theories, she could work quicker. Not that her luck had at all improved since the afternoon. Whoever this hacker was, and Q was beginning to think they were not working alone, they knew how to hide. 

The attack had been swift, but easy enough to explain. A simple intrusion. Had she been listened to all those months passed, perhaps that part of their plan wouldn’t have been so simple to enact. Whoever it was had created a nearly untraceable backdoor, taking full command of the system long before anyone was aware of it. After that, their work had been simple. Disable safety protocols, flood the building with gas and light the match. The trails left behind however, Q soon discovered they numbered in the thousands. Some were easily dismissible as red herrings. Old tricks she recognized from her days as a hacker for hire. Others were more difficult to discern and needed to be followed manually. Crumb by crumb. 

_ Shit.  _ She said, leaning back.  _ Another fake.  _

She glanced again at the dossier that had been handed out that morning. The file was stacked to bursting. The report detailed the long and storied history of M’s legacy with the organization in as succinct a manner as possible. Every encounter, every underling and enemy had all been allowed their own page in hopes of moving the process along. By the time she had finished going through it, she realized she must now know more about M than anyone else in the agency. Except maybe Tanner. Q had first devoured the pages upon pages of text, only to end up with 25 pages tagged for interest. She placed the 23rd back into the folder. With only two more possibilities and zero leads, she was beginning to feel the itch of hopelessness clawing at the back of her mind. 

_Such a public display, yet so few deaths. The attackers could have easily brought down the entire building. Or more. So this is personal. That...seems like the most logical explanation. But no one seems to know who it could be, not even M. So if it’s not personal...perhaps made to look that way?_ _And if that’s the case…_

She reached for her mug, taking shallow sips. The tea inside was frigid now and oversteeped, but she could hardly taste it. Her mind was spinning again, picking up speed. The room around her fell away again. The sound of rain far above her grew deafening. The light of her computer screen seemed somehow brighter, enveloping her, luring her in. Her posture loosened again before constricting as she hunched back over, pushing her face closer as a new thread of thought wove together. 

There was nothing telling in the code she had uncovered, no marker or sign. Unusual for the work of a hacker. Any one of them worth their salt crafted a name for themselves. Or, if not a name, a calling card. It was worrisome. It likely meant that the explosion wasn’t the intended statement. It was just the beginning. An introduction...or an omen of something far more sinister to come. 

_ Whoever did this certainly knows their way around the MI-6 systems, as outdated as they are...to cover their tracks so thoroughly, that shows real skill. Familiar skill.  _

Her eyes strayed towards the pile of papers that made up the dossier. An uneasy feeling settled in her stomach, empty of all but chilled tea. She knew what she needed to do. With a heavy sigh, plucked at her keyboard. Her fingers moved slowly this time, her hesitation growing with each pointed tap. After accessing what was left of the MI6 archive, she started with a simple search. 

O.B.E.R.O.N

The machine whirred to life. Q watched restlessly as her key search rummaged through files at light speed. But after several minutes of rifling, the search yielded nothing. Q breathed through her nose, lips tightening into a thin line. She had expected this. In fact, it was in her best interest that even after the destruction of data, there were no listings of OBERON.

_ It certainly doesn’t help me now.  _ She thought, swallowing.  _ I’ll have to search one by one.  _

She decided to begin at the end and work her way backwards. A cowardly move perhaps, but the instinct was too strong to deny. After setting the proper parameters, she entered the first name. 

**Null.** A single result appeared. The page was small, lacking in the most pertinent information, but as her eyes read down she realized why. 

**Known name. Xiulan Li. *status: confirmed dead***

**Known Aliases. Null. Anna Cheung. Bao Ling.**

**Age: 28 yrs at time of death.**

_ Time of death.  _ Q read again, the pit in her stomach expanding. With no time to dwell, she moved to the next name. 

**Osiris.**

**Known name: Fadia Hamdi. *status: unconfirmed***

**Known Aliases. Osiris. Reina Malek. Laura Lang.**

**Age: 29**

**Location: unknown.**

Delving deep into her memory, Q typed in several IP addresses. The third one came up as still active. She ran it’s activity against the date of the attack. It had been in use, accessing a back door to a bank in Berlin. 

_ Doing well for yourself, Fadi.  _ Q thought, with an empty laugh before moving on to the next name. 

**Rainmaker.** A single result appeared. The page was small, lacking in the most pertinent information, but as her eyes read down she realized why. 

**Known name. Gabriel Okandi. *status: confirmed***

**Known Aliases. Rainmaker. Devon Samuels. Lewis Stone.**

**Age: 29**

**Last Known Location: Cape Town, South Africa**

_ He’s...home?  _ Q thought, puzzled.  _ No, it must be a misdirect.  _ She shook it off and repeated the same process of IP addresses. None were active at the time of the attack. 

**Envy.**

**Known name. *status: unconfirmed***

**Known Aliases. Envy.**

**Last Known Location: New York, United States of America.**

_ Still hiding, Isaac?  _ Q thought, a small smile ghosting over her pursed lips. Out of all her old colleagues, Isaac seemed the most likely suspect.  **_Think on your sins_ ** _.  _ In all the years she’d known him, he had been obsessed with the concept of the seven deadly sins, even taken one of them as his name. His cyphers always hinged on one of them as a key. 

_ Isaac has little interest in politics. What reason would he have to enact such a brazen attack? Why then, would any of them? _

Her shoulders sagged as the realization of what she had done sunk in. The truth was, none of her former compatriots were likely to accept a job as showy as this. No matter how much money was offered. Which meant her impromptu search was nothing more than a late night lapse in judgement. Even so, her fingers hovered over the keypad, itching to fall into place. There was one other name she could search. One last member of OBERON aside from herself.

_ Don’t do it.  _ She told herself, even as she leaned closer to the screen. 

It had taken close to a year, but she had managed to dig a grave to perfectly fit her past. The grave was, of course, metaphorical in practice, yet still very real in the deep recesses of her mind. OBERON was buried there, a festing corpse of bad decisions. And Maggie Dawson with it. 

This job was her only shot at a new start, so new she still hadn’t decided on the alias that would be attributed to her personnel file and all her new documentation. Opening the door to OBERON would only raise the dead. She knew even an attempt at a search for that final name would likely trigger a warning and she would run the risk of dropping herself right back in the mire.  _ He _ would be notified. He would  _ know _ that she was still out there. To dredge it all up again, so soon after she had left it all behind would be nothing more than an exercise in madness. 

A series of soft, swift raps against the metal desk roused her from her dilemma and caught her entirely off guard. With a sharp intake of breath, she jolted backwards nearly losing her seat. She stumbled off of it, feet hitting the ground with a slap, her hands gripped the edge of the table. Her eyes fluttered open and shut, trying to adjust to the lack of light that surrounded her. As they worked it out, she could make out a slender shadow standing opposite her. 

“Sorry,” It said with a gentle composure. “I was trying to avoid that.”

The shadow darkened and then became more sharp as it stepped into the light. It was a woman, finely dressed in a rose red silk blouse, navy skirt and sensibly chic heels. On her face, she wore what Q estimated to be an apologetic smile.

“Oh,” Q said, masking her surprise. “N-not a problem, I’m afraid I lose track of my surroundings when I’m...searching.” Despite the risk, her hand shot out and she pulled the laptop shut with a resounding snap. A moment of silence, shaken only by the sound of falling rain far above, passed between them. It was awkward yes, but if Q had become used to anything in her line of work, it was the occasional awkward interaction. 

“Have you found anything?” The woman asked, a spark of hope rearing in her amber eyes as she glanced down at the laptop curiously. 

“No,” Q said bluntly, pushing away the flush of shame that threatened to overtake her face. “Whoever did this, they know how to hide.”  _ Even from me.  _ She thought, pressing her lips together in a tight line. 

Undeterred, the woman’s smile deepened into something warmer. “We’ve yet to be introduced.”

She crossed around the table and held out her hand. “Eve Moneypenny.”

Q knew who she was, of course. She had spent the first few nights of her employment scouring the other personnel files to best acquaint herself, not only with her own staff, but with other departments as well. When she was a child, her grandfather had often bragged that she possessed an eidetic memory. But seeing as she had never once in her adult life found definitive, scientific proof that such a feat truly existed, she wasn’t inclined to believe it herself. Still, she found cataloging faces and names and the words she read in books came more easily to her than it did to most. It was a tradeoff, decided at birth by the string of genes that had been assigned to her by whatever high power existed. She could memorize and theorize and sort as easily as she could breathe. It was fun, too. Taking stacks of data and stripping them down to their bare bits. Conversely, taking small disparate pieces and molding them together was equally satisfying. She was born to do this sort of work. Pity, it had taken her as long as it had to realize it. 

“Q.” She said, gingerly taking Eve’s hand for a fraction of a second before withdrawing it. Eve’s skin was cold and damp, reflecting the weather raging above. 

“What can I help you with?” Q asked hurriedly, worried that she would lose her focus for good. At least, as far as the night’s work was concerned. She reached for her mug, her fingers desperate to move again.

“You’ve been summoned.” Eve said, “The stolen data packet has been leaked. At least partially.”

“Partially?” Q repeated, the hole in her stomach expanding. She tried to fill it with another large gulp of cold tea. “How can we be sure?”

“It was sent to M directly.” Eve explained. “When she clicked on the link-”

Q’s grip slackened and the mug slipped free, crashing loudly to the floor and echoing around the empty room. 

“She clicked on it?!” Q repeated, aghast. “I-oh dear,”

She dropped to her knees, inspecting the damage to her mug. Eve knelt down near the other end of the table, retrieving a piece of the handle. 

“Oh no, your mug.” She said, shaking her head. 

“It’s not mine, I don’t think.” Q said. “My assistant brought it-I..did she  _ really _ click on it?”

The two women rose in unison, depositing the pieces onto the table. 

Eve shot another apologetic look to Q. “I’m afraid so. Technology isn’t her strong suit.”

“To put it nicely.” Q said, running a hand through her hair as her mind ran through the new bevvy of problems to add to her ever growing list. 

“Shall we go?” Eve asked. 

After gathering her things, Q followed Eve to a waiting car which sped quickly into the rainy night once they were loaded in. 

“Tanner’s there,” Eve explained. “With Mallory, but I suspect he’ll be gone by the time we arrive. After you’ve had a chance to inspect M’s computer we’ll take you on to the airport.” 

Q’s heart stopped. Then sank. 

“Airport?” She said thickly as her nerves began to spike. 

Eve turned to face her, a curious look on her face. “Yes, 007 is en route to Macau, you’ll need to meet him for the brief and pass along any additional tech-”

“He has what he needs.” Q said shortly, biting down on her lip. It was a convenient truth. After studying the files of all the Double-Ohs and picking through every last one of their mission reports she felt confident that she knew the ins and outs of their strategies and movements well enough to supply them with what they would need to get the job done. Bond was infamously more brutish than some of his colleagues, with a collection of damage invoices unlike any other, and Q hoped that limiting his access to explosives would help assauge that particular part of the MI-6 budget. It also meant that, as far as she was concerned, there was no need to send her globe trotting around when a simple encrypted email or text could do the trick. 

“Are you alright?” Eve asked. 

“Y-yes,” Q stuttered, quickly running through what options she had in her head. It seemed foolish to go with the truth, but as she caught Eve’s eye she felt more at ease. “I just haven’t been on a plane in 10 no- 12 years. It’s...a phobia of mine.” 

Instead of derision or amusement, Eve’s eyes sparked. She reached over and placed her hand over Q’s squeezing it tightly. 

“Let me go.” She said. 

“Pardon?” Q asked, blinking in surprise. 

“Someone has to go. And let’s just say, I have some unfinished business with 007.” Eve said, her smile turning sly. She leaned back in her seat, crossing one leg over the other. Q could see a plan formulating in her mind. “When M brings it up just suggest I go.” 

“I don’t think I can do that.” Q said. 

“Of course you can. She may be M, but you’re Q.” Eve quipped. “Those one letter ranks hold more power than you’ve yet to realize.”

This time, it was Q’s turn to grin. She didn’t need any further convincing. She had promised herself long ago that she wouldn’t get on a plane as long as she could help it and she had no intention of breaking that promise. Not for M or for Queen or Country. And certainly not for the likes of James Bond.

* * *

Nothing about Q’s employment, from the initial appointment up until now had been typical. As she was led through the entry into M’s home, she wondered if the previous Quartermaster had ever been called over. Given the extraordinary circumstances, she imagined the answer was no. It stoked her ego, knowing how heated it would have made him or any of the other superiors who had pushed for her termination. 

_ That’s entirely inappropriate.  _ She told herself as she followed behind Moneypenny, her jacket having been deposited in the front hall. 

To Q’s surprise, the den was littered with books. Floor to ceiling shelves lined either side of an immaculate fireplace. In front of it, sat two large couches with a low table in between where several large volumes were stacked while some seemed haphazardly placed around them. The rest of the furniture seemed more in line with Q’s expectations, all of it terribly old and likely terribly expensive. But the room, and the townhouse as a whole seemed strangely lived in, despite the knowledge she had that M was, by all accounts, a hopeless addict when it came to the job at hand. She followed Eve and took a seat next to her on one of the over-stuffed couches before letting the strap of her bag fall off her shoulder as she gathered in up into her lap and held it tightly against her chest. A small fire shuttered noisily in the hearth. 

Just as Eve had expected, Mallory was nowhere to be seen. Tanner approached Q, placing M’s laptop in front of her. Q accepted it, pulling it into her lap for an assessment as M and Eve spoke to one another. 

_ It’s ancient.  _ Q thought, only mildly horrified. She ran her finger across the mousepad, taking in the damage that had been done while at the same time, trying to keep track of what was being said around her. 

“-all we can to extract them, but Mallory believes the inquiry will be pushed up.” 

“If that’s true we have less time to prepare than we thought. Call MacKay in MI-5 and see if he can pull the files dating back to the-”

"Yes, ma'am,"

As Q surveyed the video file, she couldn’t but think back to OBERON again. 

_ Why is it lingering in my mind? It’s not important it’s in the past.  _

Her eyes drifted upwards to look just above the screen. M was seated in front of her, a glass in her hand. She didn’t seem nervous or even put out by the ever-worsening circumstances.

_ Not even as her career implodes around her. It’s admirable. For someone who has been in this as long as she has.  _

M, having realized that Q was watching her, addressed the Quartermaster.

“Well?” She questioned. "Your team has had forty-eight hours to review the files. Do you know who's done this?"

The chatter around them faded and Q felt several pairs of eyes focused on her. 

_It's in the past..._ Q thought. Swallowing, she said, “I don’t...but, I believe you do."

A heady silence followed, swallowing up even the sound of the fire. As M's stare turned to steel, Q looked away, glancing around the room. Eve and Tanner were watching her with wide eyes. 

“And I’ve already told you, I don’t” M said stiffly. 

Q straightening, looking back to M. Dead in the eye. 

“Forgive me, Ma’am.” Q said, undeterred. “But that’s a lie.”

Tanner coughed, drawing M’s attention. 

“Moneypenny, Tanner.” She said, “That will be all.”

Tanner sputtered. "Ma'am, I-"

“See that the car comes around at eight in the morning." M directed. "I’m certain Q can make her own way home once I’m done with her.” 

She shot a narrow glance in Q’s direction. 

“Um, y-yes, of course.” Q said, sensing any other answer would not be met favorably.

Thoroughly dismissed, both Tanner and Eve gathered their things and ghosted away, leaving Q and M alone. The silence persisted and Q suddenly wondered how bad it would have been to be boarding a plane. 

_Christ, am I going to be sacked?_ She thought, _Again?!_

As if reading her mind, M finally spoke, “Would you care for a drink?” 

Q shook her head, her grip tightening on the laptop. 

M rounded the couch and reached for a decanter that sat on a small table. She poured herself another heaping serving before returning to her seat. 

“Mallory is very impressed with your work.” M said, meeting Q’s eye before taking a long drink from her glass. 

Q’s shoulders dipped slightly, relief coursing through her veins. She waited patiently for her superior to continue. 

“You see before the attack, when the mission was just a field failure with the potential to the salvaged,” M explained. “Mallory informed me that he had been chosen to oversee my retirement.”

Q flinched. This was news to her, though it would explain why Mallory had been present at her hiring. 

“If not for this...attack, I may have been able to fight it.” M continued, her eyes drifting to the fire. “In any case, I plan to nominate Mallory as my replacement so it’s fortunate that he’s warmed to you. I’d hate to have my final appointment unceremoniously dumped by a foolhardy pencil-pusher.” 

Q breathed a laugh, finally feeling comfortable enough to exhale. 

“Whatever happens,” M said. “I want you to know, it won’t be easy.”

“Ma’am?” Q questioned. 

“After looking through your file, I’m sure you’re no stranger to what I’m about to say, but I believe it bears repeating.” M advised. “There will be people within the organization, people outside of it, as well as people who have no business commenting on it at all that will deem you unworthy of this post. They will insist you don’t belong. That you’re incompetent. That there’s someone, _some man_ , better suited for the position. They will make constant references to your “predecessor” and bemoan any changes you exact. My advice to you is...don’t pay them any mind.”

Q smiled. It was grim. The truth of M's words sinking in. She did understand. Far too well. 

"I don't intend to." Q said, "Ma'am."

"Good," M said, finishing off her drink. "Now, there's something I need you do assist me with."

“Yes Ma’am.” Q said, straightening. “Gladly.”

"Something I need to record." She gestured towards the laptop. "I take it that thing can take video?" 

"It can." Q said, brow furrowing. 

"Then get it set." 

Q nodded, pushing the laptop back and going through the necessary motions. Once it was ready, she adjusted the screen so that M was in center view. 

"Alright, ma'am." She said, "It's ready."

With little fuss, M brushed her hair back and looked dead on into the camera. Taking that as the signal, Q pressed 'record' and nodded silently to M.

“If anything happens to me 007," M said, "I need you to do something.” 

Q’s head shot up as she took in the words. 

“Find a man called Marco Sciarra.” She continued, her steely eyes still trained right down the barrel of the camera lense. “Kill him. And don’t miss the funeral.”

Q stumbled over the keys, stopping the video just as M glanced up at her.

"What was-" She started. 

"Don't ask questions." M ordered. "I'm afraid this is above your pay grade." 

Q frowned. Nothing was above her pay grade. Not any more. 

"But-"

"I want this file transferred off this machine and secured." M continued, unabated. "I'm trusting you to deliver it to 007, only in the event of my death. Is that understood."

Q neither nodded nor shook her head. She just stared for a moment, trying to process what she had just witnessed. 

"Ma'am, I have to ask-"

"No, you don't." M spat. "You just have to comply. No one can know of this. Not even 007."

"I'm sorry?" 

"If I do in fact die, you'll have to find some way to get it to him without him knowing of your involvement. He won't take kindly to such meddling."

Q opened her mouth to protest, but M shot her a look that had her withering. 

_Don't argue it now._ Q thought. _What are the chances she'll die anyway?_

Against her better judgement (and a heaping helping a curiosity), Q relented. "Alright." 

"Good girl." M said, rising. "That will be all." 

Q rose to her feet, taking the laptop in hand and stuffing it into her messenger bag. 

"Mallory has assured me he will keep Bond informed." M said, "You have more pressing matters to attend to." 

Q simply nodded, following M out into the hallway. She retrieved her jacket from the coat rack by the door and slipped it over her shoulders before reaching for the door. Just as she opened it, she heard M call to her. 

"Q?"

Q turned around, she could hear the rain pouring outside and feel the chill of the night coming from the crack in the doorway. 

"Yes?"

M stood at the end of the hall, she looked smaller than normal, her face marred by the shadows of the darkened hall. 

"I do have one other piece of advice." She said, almost warily. "If you're willing to take it." 

Q nodded, jerking her shoulder back to ease the strap of her bag up higher. "Of course."

"Don't play favorites." M said, after a heady pause. "It's the only thing I truly regret."

* * *

**_Thirty-Six Hours Later..._ **  
  


* * *

“Now, looking at Silva’s computer, it seems he’s done a number of rather unusual things.” 

Bond slipped his hands into his pockets, his eyes taking in the new Q Branch. Temporary as it may be, the contrast to the old laboratory was stark. In his old age, Major Boothroyd and his brood of underlings had maintained a cluttered and overstuffed “office.” The low ceilings and enveloping dampness (no matter the weather in the outside world above), was reason enough for Bond to avoid the branch whenever possible. He preferred instead to receive mission briefs from the comfort of his office with the help of his assistant, Nina. She was the youngest of the Double-Oh pool, but capable and decidedly warmer than the largely male staff who he always found too eager to please. 

This new office however, was spotless. A minimalist’s paradise compared to the laboratories that Boothroyd lorded over. The sheen of white paint, so new he could still smell traces of lingering chemicals, made the room seem larger than it likely was. Bond casually shifted his show to the side to get a better look at the vast array of drives and terminals that had been built up below the glass floor underfoot. A slim man was walking just below, monitoring the machines carefully. Hatches built into the floor were accessorized with two different locking pass codes and were under direct order to remain closed at all times. From what he understood, members of the branch took shifts in what was being referred to as the “galley.” 

Bond looked up and cast another glance around the room. There was hardly a gadget in sight. There seemed to be more computers than there were people, actually. Clearly, this new Q and her branch of even newer hires had a different set of priorities in mind. In fact, he was finding it difficult to pinpoint any similarities between the old Q and this newer, younger model. 

_ Aside from the chatter, _ Bond thought, his gaze shifting back to Q as she continued with her explanation. She seemed entirely unaware of his probing eye, focused as she was on one screen or another. He was fairly certain she was wearing the exact same pair of slim slacks she had worn upon their first meeting. Her blouse, once again buttoned all the way up past her collar bone, was also adorned with a bow in place of a tie. An oddly feminine touch, given the overall androgyny of her style...if one could call it that. The sweater she wore looked new and expensive, but the rust coloring did nothing for her slightly pallid complexion. 

_ Perhaps they just like to hear themselves talk.  _ He concluded, thinking back to several long winded conversations he had been forced to suffer through with the old Q. 

“...He’s established failsafe protocols to wipe the memory if there’s any attempt to access certain files.” Q finished, adjusting her glasses. “Only about six people in the world could program safeguards like that.”   


“Of course there are. Can you get past them?” Bond asked impatiently. 

Q smiled. It was small and swift, like a dashing ember, but Bond’s keen eye caught sight of it. 

“I invented them.” She said, simply. “Right then, let’s see what you’ve got for us, Mr. Silva.”

At the mention of his name, Bond was reminded suddenly of the conversation he had had with their current adversary on the abandoned isle. 

* * *

_ “Chasing spies, so old fashioned.” Silva said, apparently having yet to tire of haranguing his captive audience. “I am surprised, Mr. Bond, that you’ve yet to spring one of those little gadgets from those fools in Q branch.” _

_ “I’m afraid I wasn’t given much to work with.” Bond replied with a shrug, rubbing at his freed wrists as he tried to weigh his options. It was true. Not much could be done with a gun and a radio, even if he had managed to activate the latter without much trouble.  _

If I manage to get out of this. _ Bond thought,  _ I’ll have to talk to the with that little-

_ “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.” Silva said, his strangely gentle timbre turning wistful. “A young one like that is too clever for such primitive means.” _

_ Realizing that he could only be referring to the newly instated Q, Bond’s frown deepened. How could he know? Bond couldn’t be sure but he estimated that barely forty-eight hours had passed since she had officially entered the field. And even if they were being watched, how could Silva or his men be certain that she was in fact the Quartermaster and not some secretary or misdirect? Whatever the answer, it didn’t sit well. _

_ “She is like me that one.” Silva said, breaking Bond’s train of thought. Bond turned his blue eyes towards Silva once more. The man’s smile turned wolfish. “There’s an artistry to this sort of work, Bond. Few understand it. But she does...O pessaro preto.” _

_ Silva’s hands raked over the keys of his laptop, just as slowly and as suggestively as they had Bond’s thighs just moments ago. _

* * *

And now Q’s hands did the same, if only for a moment. From his position behind her, Bond could see her the shadow of her face reflected in the cavernous black of Silva’s seized laptop screen. A bantam chill ran up his spine. There was something...strange about this girl. She certainly dressed and spoke like a toff, but aside from that there was little that reminded him of the old Q. Was it the way she spoke? Her words so impossibly quick yet easily understood, how they slipped from her mouth like viciously poised snakes hidden under the guise of old world decorum. Or was it the way the harsh light caught her glasses, erasing any sign of the keen dark eyes lurking underneath? Something about her poked at Bond’s carefully sharpened instincts. She was dangerous. Somehow. Bond tried to shake it off as he looked her up and down once more. Everything about her appearance told him to think otherwise. And yet, Silva’s words echoed persistently in the back of his mind. 

_ She is like me that one... _

A second later the black screen jumped to life. Several blocks of frustratingly small text appeared. 

“We’re in.” She said, the smallest of grins ghosting across her face. 

To Bond, the text was small and indecipherable. 

“M’am,” Came a voice from the block of colleagues spread out behind them. “What do you make of this?”

The large screen on the wall mirrored whatever it was they wanted her to see. 

“This is his omega site.” Q said, turning back to her own laptop. It was a slimmer model, the back of the screen was covered in stickers that had seen wear and tear. “Most encrypted level he has.”

With a few deft clicks, she took over control of the screen. Her eyes never left it, even while her fingers dashed quickly across the keypad.

“Look like obfuscated code to conceal its true purpose...security through obscurity.” 

She plugged away, fighting against another smile. This was the sort of work she loved. A puzzle begging to be pulled apart and completed in an entirely new way. It had been a long time since she had allowed herself the pleasure of going toe to toe with a hacker truly worth his salt. 

“He’s using a polymorphic engine to manipulate the code.” She explained, not only for Bond’s benefit but likely for some of the less experienced members of her team. “Whenever I try to gain access it changes. It’s like trying to solve a rubik's cube that’s fighting back.”

Bond watched the screen closely, but none of it seemed to make a wink of sense to his untrained eye-

“Stop.” He said suddenly, as a series of passing letters caught his attention. “Go in on that.”

Q did so. 

“Granborough.” Bond said, recognizing it fully now. “It’s an old tube station on the metropolitan line. Use that as a key”

The screen morphed, lines of white code melding together until it had all turned to red. Like a writhing organism the code reshaped, forming into something entirely different. 

“Oh look it’s a map.” Q said, realizing it first. 

“It’s London,” Bond said. “Subterranean London.”

Before they could continue any further, a familiar gasping noise echoed around the room. Q turned, recognizing the sound instantly. 

_ But that doesn’t...I haven’t approved anyone to open the doors.  _

“What’s going on?” She asked, “Why’re the doors open?”

A blur of black sped past her and in an instant Bond was gone, fleeing out the door and down the stairs into the shadows. To make matters worse, a low, steady beeping filled the room. Q spun back around. The words SYSTEM SECURITY BREACH flashing large and loud at the center of the screen. 

“Can someone tell me how the hell he got into our system?” She questioned aloud, her voice going hard. 

A flash of red caught her eye and she glanced down to Silva’s laptop. A familiar skull appeared at the center of the screen and underneath it was a message. 

**_Not such a clever girl._ **

But it wasn’t the taunt that drove the nail into her heart. Unlike the skull she had seen in the images on M’s computer this time it was animated, the head chomping gleefully down of the skeletal figure of a small bird. 

“Oh shit.” 

_ How?! _ She thought, her eyes fixated on the little bird gyrating in pain.  _ How could he know? _

Reaching down she pulled the chords from the blasted thing, slamming the case shut. She looked up to see all eyes on her. 

“He hacked us.” She said, forcing her growing into something more predictable, that of embarrassment and anger. 

She felt neither embarrassed or angry, however. Panic pulsed through her veins, a million questions all converging into one. 

For years she had kept her past successfully hidden. But Silva knew who she was, no- who she had been...which begged the question: who else knew?


End file.
